Page 4 of Dalliances & Devotion (The Truitts 2)

“Amalia, you divorced them. They had to be angry.” He pushed his spectacles up his nose so he could peer at her better. Who wouldn’t be? To have Amalia Truitt promise to love you for all time and for her to snatch that away...

“No. Not at all. My divorces were settled prior to filing—civilized negotiation, not passion.” She refused to meet his gaze. “I was always the petitioner so I could claim abandonment and retain my property. Well, the property I didn’t give in exchange for acquiescence.”

“It’s a good thing your parents are wealthy,” he murmured. And insufferable. And loathed him on sight.

“Yes. Money may be ‘the root of all evil,’ or whatever you like to say but it can also smooth all ills. And is quite the aphrodisiac.” The smile didn’t reach her eyes nor show her dimple. “But, I promise you, the divorces signify nothing but hard lessons I learned on my way to becoming something better.” Amalia clenched the arms of the chair so hard it was a wonder she didn’t burst the stuffing.

A million questions sat at the tip of his tongue, but none were polite.

On impulse he grasped a gloved hand and rubbed it between his palms. “Don’t fret, Amalia. Nothing will happen to you.”

And nothing would. Not on his watch.

Because, after all, he was a professional.

* * *

At least the line still had smoked kippered herring on the menu, and would serve hers with spinach instead of potatoes. And a half a grapefruit. And French vanilla ice cream. Good god, she needed to fill her stomach. She needed her mind to work. She had a million tasks and no time.

How did she impress upon her parents that her charity was necessary? That there were women trapped in horrible marriages because they lacked the means for a divorce. Attorneys were expensive. As was living in a divorce-friendly state like Indiana for the requisite period to take advantage of its laws.

She needed to explain the situation like that—with clear, concise points. And not get flustered. Especially with the threats. From a disgruntled husband no doubt, who’d somehow found out her identity, despite the pains she’d taken to conceal it.

Not exactly facts in her cause’s favor when she went before her parents. Amalia sighed.

At least she’d been permitted to take her meal in peace as David’s unseen partners patrolled. Their leader sat on the other side of the room scratching at some report. He’d had fish too. With no ice cream. Which was probably for the better since everything was being charged to her family. Though, odious as the sit

uation was, he was a guest. Sort of.

Should she offer him a drink? David’s dig about her marriages echoed in her head.

Perhaps not. He had no idea why she did what she did. Not that she’d enlighten him. Waste of breath. He’d made his feelings about her plain.

She stuffed down all she’d ordered. And a second ice cream.

And now her corset bit her ribs. And flesh. Especially up top. Of all the things she could’ve inherited from her mother, why did it have to be her bust line? Her older sister got the golden hair and blue eyes and nimble grace, but all Amalia managed to claim was the feature that required an extra hook and button added to her dresses.

One of which was in danger of bursting if she didn’t get out of her clothes soon. Amalia licked her spoon one last time and cleared her throat. “I should retire.”

“Well, don’t stay up on my account. I have work. You can just go into your room and we’ll stand guard.” David thumbed through more papers, not even glancing at her.

Go to her room? Like a child? Well, at least he made her place clear. She smoothed her hair and adjusted her ribbons. “I can, but I dare say I won’t have the most comfortable sleep dressed like this.”

“You can’t undress yourself?” David slid off his spectacles and wiped his eyes.

“No, I can’t undress myself. And before you suggest I’m a spoiled sluggard, I’d ask you to try to put on one of my corsets. The steel has no give whatsoever and to be tight enough not to split my bodice...well, it isn’t a one-person job.” Struggling with the buttons a touch, she managed to pull off her gloves. Nothing was easy. He had no idea how much effort it took to be a well-dressed woman. She should introduce him to her columns.

“That would be quite a sight.” He turned around to face her. And winked. He stretched his arms above his head, his flimsy white shirt and suspenders leaving very little of his form to the imagination. Not an unattractive view. Not that she cared anymore.

Especially while he was distracting her. What exactly was he reading anyway?

“You’d probably lose an eye. These buttons are sharp.” She stretched her fingers over the back of his chair, ready to lean over and just take a small gander—He jumped up so fast that her shoes skittered as she lurched back so his head didn’t collide with her nose.

“I’ll call Meg.” He ran to the door and stuck his head outside, taking his papers with him.

Fiddlesticks.

There was an exchange of deep, intense whispers, which she couldn’t quite make out—not that she was listening. Fruitless, David returned, sticking his nose right back inside the papers, without making eye contact. Again.

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